


don't you dare look back

by youcouldmakealife



Series: throw up your fists, throw out your wits [9]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luke doesn’t think he’s ever looked better than he does, right then, bleeding from wounds Luke gave him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't you dare look back

**Author's Note:**

> That's all, folks. 
> 
> Title is from Daughter's 'Landfill'. If ever a story earned a theme song, Luke's earned 'Landfill'.

Once they get inside, they can’t stop kissing. Luke feels like a kid again, all desperation, like if he pulls away from Nikita he’ll die. Feels like a kid again, and he wanted this so badly as a kid. They make it to his room blindly, and with only a couple mishaps, Nikita knocking his head against Luke’s framed rookie jersey and laughing into Luke’s mouth, a giddy little thing that Luke’s never heard from him, caught like a secret between them.

They pull apart when the back of Nikita’s knees hit the mattress, when he goes down hard, but before Luke can reach for him again, follow him down, Nikita’s gone for the buttons of his shirt, and that’s something Luke can agree with. They’re slower than they would be if they were just taking care of themselves, doing it backwards, but Nikita’s body is hot under Luke’s fingers, his pulse pounding under the thin skin of his wrists when Luke finally remembers to unbutton his sleeves. 

As soon as their shirts are off they’re kissing again, clumsy hands on belts, working flies down, Luke blindly shoving his pants down, his boxers, before they get tangled around his ankles because he forgot his fucking _shoes_. He has to pull back to take care of them, but he can’t stop looking at Nikita, mouth red, wet, eyes dark, only a sliver of blue, the blue that’s always so fucking cold.

Nikita stands long enough to deal with his own pants, shoes, before he’s got a hand around Luke’s wrist, tugging him back onto the bed, just enough force that Luke ends up sort of awkwardly straddling him, Nikita’s hands curling around his hips. Luke looks down at him, Nikita beneath him, Nikita just holding on, and his heart is trying to pound its way out of his chest.

It never gets ugly. That’s the best way to describe the way their bodies usually move together, ugly, half blows and reopened cuts and darker, deeper bruises, marks so that there’s no doubt Nikita’s been there, had Luke every way that matters. But it doesn’t get ugly, Nikita’s hands never go hard, his kisses stay free of teeth, and when Luke’s coming, his cock in Nikita’s hand, panting into Nikita’s mouth, there isn’t a single mark on him that wasn’t there already, not a single mark to show Nikita was there at all.

*

Luke’s nineteen when he gets called up, just a month into the season. He won’t flatter himself and say it’s all him, though he’s finally settled into his final growth spurt. The Flames had traded away most of their strength in the last couple seasons, trying to make it with speed and skill, but all it’s doing at this point is making it easy to push them around. When their only decent brawn is out with a concussion, Luke’s called up to fill the gap, since there’s no one else for it.

The second game of his NHL career is against the Jets, and Luke doesn’t know if that’s a good thing, whether it’s better to run right into it instead of eyeing the calendar with dread, but there’s a part of him that wants to hide from it, that wishes he was still in Abbotsford, where he wouldn’t have to face this. But this is business, this is _hockey_. Even if Luke has to throw up in the bathroom before the game, no one giving him shit because they’re probably thinking it’s still nerves. The show can be overwhelming, everyone knows it.

He’s shaking right until the the game, though it stops the second he’s on for his first shift, because it’s all instinct then, he knows what to do, and he could be shit scared--he _is_ shit scared--and still manage this, because the game’s down into his bones. He’s on the fourth line to Sidorchuk’s third line, checking line. Calgary couldn’t call a single line of theirs a checking line with a straight face. The lines don’t match up until halfway through the first, and Luke can’t hold on to the professionalism that he’s been grasping at, forgets the puck, forgets offensive awareness, and gets Sidorchuk with a crunching blow against the boards when neither of them are anywhere near the puck, an undeniable interference call, though the refs miss it, and Luke gets away with it despite the cries of the crowd, his blood pumping hot through him.

In the second, Sidorchuk slewfoots him, Luke going down hard. It’s a fucking bullshit play, thugh it’s called, at least. Or sort of, Sidorchuk in the box with a minor for tripping while Luke sits sore on the bench, his coach yelling at the refs until they skate away and leave him impotent. 

“You good kid?” his coach asks, when Sidorchuk’s leaving the penalty box, and Luke nods, jaw tight. “Then light him the fuck up.”

Luke does, gets on the ice and goes straight for Sidorchuk before he can get off, sees a sliver of grin on Sidorchuk’s face before he’s dropping his gloves, getting one fist in his jersey and another right in his teeth. He gets another hit in before Sidorchuk’s managed even one, a glancing blow to Luke’s face because he doesn’t have the leverage, his positioning sucks, taken aback. Probably still thought Luke was a little brat who couldn’t fight to save his life.

He knows different now, has to, when he’s lost his balance and Luke manages one more, practically grinds his knuckles in his face before he’s getting hauled off. Luke’s mouth throbs, just a little, enough to know Sidorchuk’s managed to get one good shot in, at least, but that’s nothing compared to what he dealt out. The jumbotron replays the fight during a stoppage in play, then zeros in on the box, and he watches Sidorchuk spitting blood onto the floor of the penalty box, mouth bright red, given a towel to hold to his nose until the bleeding stops. Luke doesn’t think he’s ever looked better than he does, right then, bleeding from wounds Luke gave him.

The Flames win, the game winning goal notched when Luke’s back in the box in the third, an elbow to some dick who seemed interested in getting some back, muscling him into the boards. A beauty of a shorthander, and one that leaves the Jets looking pissed both directly after and when the buzzer goes. Luke gets a couple pats on the back, on the ass, guys grinning at him, because the Jets have a reputation for toughness and the Flames really don’t. Smiles back at them, because the adrenaline’s still pumping through him, the rush of finally being someone who can fight Sidorchuk, who can _win_.

He takes a long shower until his heartbeat’s slowed a bit, prods at his lip in the mirror, trying to figure out how likely it is to swell, skin tender beneath his fingers, the soft flesh of his mouth broken. He might end up with a fat lip, and he’ll wear it proudly if it does. He’s got a couple bruises from falling after the slewfoot, couldn’t brace himself in time to minimize the damage. They hurt more than his mouth, far more, and they’re nothing he can be proud of, just more bruises Sidorchuk’s dealt him. He got his own back, at least.

He’s one of the last guys to get dressed, the room nearly clear when he steps back into it, media long gone. 

“Jesus, he got you good,” Harmon says. 

“I got him back,” Luke says, simply.

Harmon grins at him. “Ice that shit, at least,” he says, and Luke rolls his eyes, gives him a salute. He has to dress kind of gingerly, the adrenaline gone and his body’s aches starting to catch up with him, elbows so sore he can barely bend them without wincing, and the soft cotton of his dress shirt feels rough when he’s pulling it on. He’s slow, and he’s the last guy out, tells Harmon to let them go ahead without him, figures he could do with a drink and steak the size of his head, or more likely a steak sandwich at this time of night. Some victory meal.

He gets three steps out of the room when “Morris,” gets shouted at him, and he shuts his eyes, swallows, because the day he doesn’t recognize that voice is probably the day he dies. Takes a breath, manages to look blank when he turns around. Sidorchuk’s face is a fucking mess. He’s got dried blood under his nose, so it must have started bleeding again. His mouth looks like raw meat. . 

“What,” Luke says, and it almost comes out even. “You haven’t had enough?”

Sidorchuk grins at him, and it’s vicious, almost, but Luke thinks it might be the most genuine grin he’s even pointed Luke’s way. His front tooth is chipped, and Luke genuinely has no idea if it had already been that way or if that was his own doing as well. Hopes he did it. Hopes it fucking hurt.

“Come with me,” Sidorchuk says, and Luke doesn’t know why he does this, he’ll never know why, but when Sidorchuk turns his back, Luke follows. 

*

After, Nikita only moves enough to grab his undershirt from the floor, mop them both off, before settling back down beside Luke. He should go, Luke really needs him to go, but right now, Luke doesn’t have it in him to ask.

He’s starting to drift a bit, Nikita’s body a sedative warmth all down his side, when Nikita breaks the silence.  


“Ana’s pregnant,” he says, and Luke’s suddenly awake. 

Luke doesn’t insult either of them by asking who Ana is. “Congratulations, Niki,” he manages, and he almost makes it sound genuine. He wants it to be genuine. Looks up at the ceiling and wants, so badly, to be able to mean it. 

“I asked her to marry me,” Nikita says, so close that Luke can feel his breath against his skin, his lips brushing Luke’s shoulder when he speaks. Wouldn’t be surprised if they branded him.

“Why are you telling me this?” Luke asks. He would have found out, eventually, but he didn’t think Nikita would consider that any of his concern. She’s never mattered before. And Luke’s never mattered enough to tell.

“Luke,” Nikita says, quiet, and Luke fucking hates the way he says his name. He sits up, away, can’t look Nikita in the eye so he looks at his knees instead, scar tissue and broken skin, still healing from tripping up his stairs when he was too drunk to walk a straight line.

“Tell me to leave her,” Nikita says.

Luke laughs, and it tastes like bile. “So you can laugh in my face again?” he asks, and his voice cracks, like he’s a kid all over again, back when he couldn’t even manage a fucking sentence without showing weakness.

Nikita sits up behind him, fingers brushing Luke’s back, and Luke flinches from his touch like it’s a blow.

“I think I am in love with you,” he says, and when Luke finally manages to look at him, his face is serious. And Nikita’s a bastard, he’s always been one and he’ll always be one, but he’s never been the lying type.

“So?” Luke asks, suddenly angry, only angry, everything else washed out from under it, the anger good, and clean, and the only thing in him that isn’t confusing. “What difference does that make?” 

“You love me,” Nikita says, a statement of fact, and Luke swipes his hand over his eyes, impatient with the way they’re stinging.

“I’ve loved you for ten years,” Luke says. “So what fucking difference does that make?”

Nikita looks surprised, he looks fucking _surprised_ , like that’s news to him, like the kid crying his eyes out after he told Nikita he loved him wasn’t in their past, like that kid and Luke aren’t one and the same. He hasn’t felt like that kid for a long time, he hasn’t been hopeful like that in a long time, hasn’t been that easy to destroy, but that’s because Nikita took care of that for him. Christ, Luke’s made of what remained. 

“You should go,” Luke says. 

“Luke,” Nikita says, almost helpless, and Luke gets up, finds his boxers, tugging them on, going through his drawers and taking the first t-shirt his fingers touch, pulling it over his head. Nikita hasn’t moved.

“Can you just go?” Luke asks. “I really need you to go.”

Showing weakness. Showing his fucking throat. He should know better by now. Nikita taught him better than that. 

“Tell me to leave her,” Nikita repeats. “And I will.”

“No,” Luke whispers.

“What?” Nikita asks, and he has the fucking balls to sound surprised.

“No,” Luke says, can repeat it as long as he can just keep looking at the wall, doesn’t have to look him in the eye. “Please just go.”

He hears Nikita dress, the snick of his belt, his footsteps in hard-soled shoes before he touches Luke again, hand on his shoulder while Luke stares at the wall and doesn’t see anything.

“You’re going to be a shitty dad,” Luke mumbles.

“I know,” Nikita says, soft. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” Luke says. “Please don’t make me do this anymore.”

Nikita’s hand tightens, and Luke hears him exhale shakily. “Okay,” he says, finally, and lets go. 

Luke stares at the wall, and he listens to him leave, and he feels nothing. 

It's the best feeling he's had in years.

**Author's Note:**

> You can come yell at me on [tumblr](http://youcouldmakealife.tumblr.com/), if you wish.


End file.
